I can't begin to recount the number of times I've questioned what the hell is wrong with me.

And this moment is no exception.

Life progresses, life changes, life hurts and heals and stabs and recoups.

Good things happen. You leave the bad and somehow good manages to find its way into your life. And you question what on earth did you do to have your life suddenly turn around and look bright again? To make the shadows and the bleakness dim because of the promise of a future?

But then moments of struggle - as always - happen. And while the fight in your was never really fully squelched, it still occasionally feels like it was. And your instinct is to give up. Because how is any pain worth struggling through and fighting and screaming and ripping and clawing your way to the surface to breathe so you can speak as you gasp for air?

...I don't know where I'm headed with this.

Other than to say, for every moment of miscommunication, of failure, of mistakes and misspoken words and poorly thought out actions...I can't help but wonder what is wrong with me.

If I'm just a defect of a human, intent on destroying all good things that come to me because I am so used to misery and sadness that anything out of that norm feels almost like a sin.

If maybe I *do* push the people I love away because I'm scared of getting hurt, of being left behind and hey, man, if I keep you at an arms distance, the pain won't hurt as much as it could.

How every thing I'm involved in ends up hurting or wounding you, how I feel like so often I turn the tables on you and taking away attention from the current issues by showing emotions that honestly don't really matter and making the focus go on me.

Fuck.

My brain is too tired to write and I am so emotionally exhausted and I high-key want to die because I'm tired of failing and being selfish and not being good enough because of all my unintentional mistakes and all the ways I hurt you.

But whatever. It's late and I don't have time to cry or process or anything.

I'm sure I'll be less dramatic tomorrow.

You ever just sit and question and wonder why the fuck you're still alive and what has prevented you from ending it already?

Because I do.
Goddamn do I wonder that.

If we're being completely honest?
On the surface it seems like things are okay and I'm happy and I have my shit together.
But really...I still want to die.
Oh how I want to die.
And not be here.
Alive.
Living this unknown hell.

Ha.
Alcohol may not be a good idea, but it's better than nothing.
Fuck antidepressants.
And life.
And not knowing.
And being sad and broken all the time.
Stuck in a routine and not caring enough but caring too much.
For failing and falling short and eventually not living up to expectations.
For panicking and wanting to run and wondering what the fuck am I actually doing.

I just want to die.
I. Just. Want. To. Die.

Is this nightmare over yet?

Sometimes people ask questions that just pierce your insides and settle down and they churn and churn in the back of your mind.  And you wonder about the answer and if you even have an answer and if you do, what that answer might possibly be.  And that damn question is marinating and you feel like you should have an answer and that something is wrong if you don’t.

But it’s okay if you don’t always have an answer for things.

Though I sit here and I wonder and I think - too hard, probably - about the question my aunt posed me when I told her about you.

“Do you love him?”

At the time she asked, I knew, at the very least, that I liked you.  A fair amount, in fact.  But love?  A hard question for someone who doesn’t have the best idea of what that truly is.

Ever since she asked, though, I keep thinking about it.  And wondering.  ‘Do I?’

I know that when I came back from my trip, I missed you dreadfully.  And realised just how fond I am of you.  And the more time I spend with you, the more I find myself caring about you, imagining a future with you.  Being with you.

Falling in love means you’re blind and you don’t see where you’re going.  But growing in love is slow and steady and safe; safe in a way that builds a solid foundation for a lifetime.  The more time passes the more feelings grow and the more love has the opportunity to cultivate.

There are some things that I have been too afraid to ask or admit to myself in the past.  For fear of getting hurt, of facing the truth, of who knows what else.  All rational concerns, probably, but have been hinderences in regards to having closure and finding clarity.

So here I find myself constantly thinking about you.  About the question my aunt asked.  About how much I care for you.

And over and over you keep proving yourself, keep showing that you are a good man.  You are kind, you are caring, your are intelligent, you are safe.  And I see this and I can’t help but question how on earth did I get someone as incredible as you in my life and how is this real??

But even more so, I realise how much I have grown to care about you.

And I question this, because I don’t want what I feel to be based off of the heat of the moment, of emotions that are escalted, but inaccurate because of the circumstances.

Not saying something for the sake of saying it, because it felt “right” when things were all riled up.

And again.

Thinking about this all rationally and logically, when my aunt posed the question, the answer was no.  I knew I liked you, knew I cared for you (admittedly, not nearly as much as you cared for me), knew I wanted you in my life.  And I could see myself growing to love you...slowly.

Because let’s be honest: being hurt in ways that may not seem severe, have left me deeply scarred and with a penchant for building up layers and layers of walls miles high.  Get hurt again?  Be broken when I’m still mending?  No thank you.

I know I am still reserved.

Still hesitent, because I still can’t believe I have found someone who puts as much effort into relationships as I do.  All 150%.  And means what they say and intends to follow through with what they talk about doing, instead of talk for the sake of filling the silence.

But I am trying my best to be unreserved.

To trust fully and believe and care about you.

...to love you.

Because when I look in your eyes and I think about all that you have done for me in such a short amount of time and how you continually prove yourself to me, I think more and more about that question.

“Do you love him?”

(I think...I think the answer is yes.)

Yes.

Do you know what depression makes you feel like?

It makes you feel like a shadow.  Like a nightmare creature told in the stories of children's fairy tales.  It drains the life and joy out of you and leaves you feeling like a memory of who you once were.

When you have the strength, you get up for the day.  You get ready, you walk around, you go through the routines just like any "normal" person would.  Except where other people may have feelings of dread or excitement or nervousness for what their day holds for them, you feel nothing.  Everything is just going through the motions.  Doing what you have to do because its expected; and besides - what else is there to do?

Some days are better than others.

The bad days you have to talk yourself into existing.  That while laying in bed for the whole day may seem best - (that's when you can best pretend you're not here, right?) - it'll only make you feel like shit later on in the day.  Or the next day, depending.  Sometimes it takes any and every amount of what little effort you have left to put one leg over the edge of the bed, and then the other.  Then sit up.  Then stand up and walk yourself to the bathroom.

Those days are gotten through with baby steps.

The good days, getting out of bed isn't really a chore.  You can function.  You look normal, sound normal, you even exhibit emotions that are seen as "normal."  You laugh, you talk, you interact.  To anyone else watching you, everything seems fine.  You seem to be able to function in a perfectly easy-going, effortless manner.

Which is, of course, a lie.

Because years ago when you first started to feel the edges of the darkness fraying around you, you didn't put on a show.  You lived your life like an open book and didn't pretend to be happy.  Until one day in high school that one friend stated "God, stop being such a downer."  And from then on, you put on a happy face and pretended the life was rainbows and sunshine and kittens because you didn't want to be the one bringing people down.

So you became the world's greatest actor.

A shadow impersonating a human.  You look like a person, you communicate like one, you even smile and joke like one.  But on the inside, it's empty.  You feel like you're dying; like you've died a thousand deaths.  'I wonder what it would be like to kill myself' becomes a casual, daily thought.

Because that's what depression does to you.

It takes and steals and robs.  It takes away any emotions you may feel, it steals away the simple, everyday joys that people take for granted, and it robs you of being able to live life to the fullest.  Even more so, it robs you of hope.

And the longer you go on with this beast inside you, living your life as a shadow-person, the more the light fades.  The further hope slips from your grip.  And any life you may have had before depression settled into your soul becomes a faded memory.  Not even something you can recall living on your own, but like a slice of happiness you read out of a book once.  You experienced it through words that painted pictures of happiness but you didn't actually experience it on your own.


So that is what life becomes: a shadow.
Muted colours, smudged edges, pixelated images.
A shadow creature living in a shadow world.

Late night baking.  Cookies are in batches, taking their turns in the oven.  I'm listening to my (horribly) self-made playlist appropriately titled "Fuck It," because that's the mood I'm most often in lately.  I'm thinking about a boy.  My phone - as it often is these days - is on airplane mode to keep people and interruptions at bay.  And I'm drinking a bottle of Magners while my latest batch of photos are importing into my photo editing program.

I keep coming back to the question 'Why do people like me?'

Though, perhaps, I shouldn't pose it as a question.  Because that's not really what it is.  It's more of a conundrum in my mind.  Having a lot of time (read: too much time) to think these days, I have found myself pondering a lot lately, why it is so fucking difficult for me to accept that other people may actually enjoy my company.  That they like having me as a friend.  That they actually appreciate me for being...well...me.

And I think I have solved the puzzle which has perplexed me for so long.

People who love themselves, expect everyone else to love them, right?  And on the flip side, people who hate themselves, expect everyone else to hate them, yeah?  Following this logic, if someone doesn't like herself, she therefore can find it quizzical that people may actually like her.

What a turn around.

Things were so different - opposite - a few years ago.  I was confident.  I knew who I was.  I had a five-year plan.  I knew who I was.  Even more so, I liked myself.  I enjoyed my company when I was alone.  I enjoyed silence, and pondering the deeper and more complex issues of life.  I knew who I was.

And then we enter present day: 28 February 2017.

I don't know who I am anymore.  I don't know what direction my life is heading.  I break the silence with any kind of noise possible because if I'm left alone too long with my thoughts I start to suffocate.  And I most definitely do not enjoy my company; which goes hand-in-hand with not liking myself.

Which makes me constantly question "HOW can people like me??"

I questioned this back in my teen-years too.  But back then, that question was fueled by different things.  One was a non-existent self-esteem.  The other fuel was an almost-obsessive need of validation for my ego.  'Tell me why you like me.  Why you want to be friends with me.  Why you think I'm so amazing.'

But peoples' thought-processes rarely go in such a direct and conscious linear way when choosing friends, right?

It's usually more like this:  You meet.  Your personalities mesh well.  You decide that investing more time and effort into this person you happen to get along swell with is worth it.  You eventually become friends and become a part of each other's lives to some degree.  Rinse and repeat.

So asking people "Why are you friends with me?" hardly seems like a fair question, right?

I learned years ago that asking that question didn't really get me results.  As most people are apt to do when confronted directly with a question so blatantly blunt, they flounder and stumble and stutter and don't know quite how to answer something they've probably never thought about.  That's fair, I suppose.  As already aforementioned, people don't pick friends in the same manner they might pick out a, say, house.  They don't make a pro and con list and then decide accordingly.  It just...happens.

Maybe this is where the younger, inflexible, everything-that-can-be-controlled-must-be-controlled Aimee comes into play.

Clearly people are like me, right?  Sure, I have my subconscious like everyone else.  But I am so aware of my thoughts and their progression in everything throughout the day, others must be as self-aware as I am right?  Wrong.  (So very wrong.)

Don't worry, this is yet one more thing I learned a long time ago: almost no one I've encountered in my life is as aware of their thought and the progression of their thoughts as I am.

Suffice to say, in all the thinking I've done, I have concluded the source of my confusion as to why people like me.  I don't like me.  I don't enjoy my company.  So the ability to comprehend that there are people out there who may actually enjoy my existence is an unknown to me.  And that's okay.  Since I have realised this, I can accept it.

After all: I don't have to understand why people like me in order to accept that it's a fact, right?

(Right.)

Shut down.

That is where I'm at right now.

Barely able to function.

And honestly only able to do so because my strong tendencies towards loyalty and responsibilities are what force me to actually get up in the morning.

If I were left to my own devices and only had myself to care for, getting out of bed wouldn't even be an option.

I am...

weary.

exhausted.

broken.

and possibly even defeated.

Any fight that was left in me was taken a long time ago.

I would say probably about 95% of the time, I can manage the sadness (read: depression).

Tricks and noises and diversions that distract me from getting too lost within the darkness.

But sometimes...sometimes those tricks aren't enough.

Or some trigger gets switched and the effectiveness of those tricks is rendered useless.

And so I begin to drown.

And rather than fight and thrash and scream out for help, I let myself sink.

Because I don't have the energy to care.

And I cannot drag people down with me.

So what happens during that 5% of time when the sadness engulfs my entire existence and I'm unable to manage it?

I shut down.

I stop being able to function.

I become completely numb, and lean towards cruelty.

My misery becomes a poison.

I am a disease with which I don't want my friends to become infected.

I'm stubborn.

Anyone who knows me knows that.

They probably also know my strong inclinations towards independence and how I basically never ask for help.

Ever.

Why?

Not because I think asking for help is weak.

But because someday I will need help and will be completely alone.

And I will have only myself to depend upon to figure things out.

I don't want to be dependent upon others when I can get things done on my own.

I guess that's where the problems start, though.

Because when that sadness begins to stifle, I cut off all possible airways for oxygen.

I avoid friends.

I stop as much communication as I possibly can.

I welcome the suffocating silence.

I do not want to be the person that brings others down.

Maybe being completely alone and isolated isn't the best.

And turning to both old and new habits to cope with the sadness isn't the healthiest.

But if I can contain this darkness until it is under control again, I'd rather let myself suffer than harm others along the way.

Especially people I care about.

And maybe I should tell people what's going on.

Or at least that I'll be AWOL for a while.

But that will elicit responses I don't want to hear.

It's best to drown on my own.

Besides.

My track record thus far has proven my ability to breathe underwater.

So far, I have survived.

(Maybe...somewhere...there is still some fight left.)

Internal Love Affairs

...Or lack thereof, I should say.

If you want to meet someone who is completely devoid of affection and lacks the ability to truly love people, congratulations.
You've just met her.

Turns out, when you don't have a job and you can't distract yourself with hard-core busy-work or constant noise, your brain tends to go even MORE on overdrive than it already is.  If that's even possible.  (It is.)

I think I've been aware of this problem for a while.
But I also acknowledge that up until this evening, it's severity was unknown to me.

I.  Don't.  Love.  You.

Or you.  Or him.  Or her.
Or anyone.

It's not for lack of trying.

...or is it?

It probably is.
But not in the common understanding of that phrase.

I have spent so much time on building a rough exterior (though, damn it, I'm still nice and friendly on the outside due to fucking common courtesy) - and an even more solidly built defense on the inside - that I now find myself incapable to feel true affection and love for those around me.

Well.
Maybe affection is still something I can draw up.

But love?
Absolutely not.

I find myself responding with non-committal grunts or noises to people who tell me "I love you;" whether that's family members or friends.  It's kind of all the same.  You love me?  Got it.  Do I love you?  Um...

No.
Not because I don't want to.
But because I can't.

For anyone who knows me well, you know how I am with words.
I'm weird with them.
My definitions of some things are specific to my own mental interpretations and how I perceive the world.
But I also know what power they hold, and tend to use them more scarcely rather than in overabundance.

(How I DESPISE people who fucking prattle on for FOREVER.)

So here is the thing.
Well, two things, actually.

1. In the severe changes that I have found myself undergoing from the hell of the past couple of years, I am currently more apt to be less truthful, meaningful, intent, and sincere with my words.  This is a huge fucking deal.
Me.  Of all people.  Who avoids sarcasm towards others because of the potential harm it could cause them.  Who makes fun of herself rather than others because I know I'm joking and I can handle poking fun at myself.
I say things that I don't 100% mean or support.  And, of course, feel a twinge of guilt.  Because it's technically a lie.  I just said something to you that I didn't completely mean, and that's inexcusable.

2. I don't know what true love feels like; and therefore, cannot give what I have not experienced to others.
So I refrain and stay as far away from that word as I can.

Let me explain.

I'm not talking about the "twu wuv" crap that is shown (and very poorly portrayed) in movies like The Princess Bride or any other romantically inclined films.

I'm talking about the Genuine, Unconditional, Sacrificial Love that was portrayed as an example of Christ dying on the cross.

(What?!?  Aimee, you fucking hypocrite.  You, who have clearly stated that you don't know where you are with God right now, are talking about something you aren't currently living out???  Screw this.  I'm out.)
(Yup, I don't blame you.  I wouldn't listen to me either, personally.  But just because I'm a shit person right now doesn't discount my knowledge of what I have lived my entire life believing.)

I have said before - and I'm going to say it again now - that Love is the most powerful force in this world.
It is Love that conquered death.
It is Love that forgives the unforgivable.
It's unconditional, sacrificial, steadfast, unchanging.

Everything that I am not.
Everything that I cannot be.

But, despite my slipping on being sincere and genuine in all that I speak, I am not so foolish as to say something so cavalier and...false...as "I love you," when I do, in fact, not mean it.

Hence my non-committal, non-verbal responses.

Don't get me wrong.
To the best of my ability and effort of trying, I will say the occasional "I love you" to a friend and mean it as much as I possibly can in my limited knowledge of the subject and/or emotion.
But it is still a big problem for me.

If I have never known (that is to say, for an extended and elongated period of time) what it feels like to reassuringly and confidently know - without a doubt - that I am fully, 100%, completely and totally loved, how can I pass that on to others?
Do I toss out those words like free candy on parade day, because that's what everyone does these days anyway?
No.
I cannot betray myself or my standards in such a wanton manner.

I know this is a problem.
It has been for many years.
The fear of getting hurt has been stronger than the fear of taking the risk to love those around me.

And of course I know that needs to change.
Theoretically, I want it to change.
In practical application, however, that remains a huge obstacle.

I have lost hope for so many things.
So I cannot say that I hope to someday change this.
That I hope to someday actively, passionately, and sincerely live out the love I have for people in my life through not only my words, but through definitive actions as well.

Hope has long been absent in my life, so I cannot say those things.
Regardless...there is slight longing for them to someday come true.
Perhaps when everything has cleared up, when the sun finally shines again, when the future presents itself as present, when there are more answers than questions.
Perhaps that is when I'll be able to finally love others.
Love them.
Love you.

(And allow myself to be loved as well.)

I could start this post out with the statement that I know exactly what I want to say and I have a point and that your time reading this will not be wasted.

But that would, in fact, be a lie.

What is not a lie, however, is the fact that I know I want to write.
Write what? I have no clue.  But I want to write.  I want to get this ache and longing that pierces me deep inside to flow from the cavity within my chest and into my fingertips, out on the keyboard, and onto my computer screen.  I want to make sense with my words, even if I can't make sense of my thoughts.  I want to have clarity.

Whatever the fuck that is.

I can tell you things I know.

I know that I have moved.
I know that moving has helped me not think about you as much.
I know that moving has also helped me think way too much about other things.
I know that I feel unproductive, and that feeling this way pushes me deeper into sadness.

I know that my concept of love is jaded and skewed and I probably don't actually love anybody anymore, which is why I avoid saying the phrase "I love you" to anyone these days.
I know that the stress and worry of not having an income, not having health insurance to be able to start figuring out what's wrong with my body, has gotten to the point where depression is starting to get near-crippling.

I can tell you that today I thought about not wanting to be alive anymore a little too much.

What else?

Ah.
My addictive personality.
And how I tend to cling to things or people or ideals and become obsessive of things.
Like how every day I think about alcohol, and when I can sneak in a drink.  How I wish 6 drinks affected me more than they do.  How it feels good to feel numb and to shut off my brain and to go to bed intoxicated because I can basically fall asleep right away instead of tossing and turning and begging for sleep to come.

How you can meet someone who for once is more goddamn intelligent than you, but for several significant reasons you know it's not going to work out in the long run.  And how that really sucks because you like them a decent amount.  And you know you should just be honest and cut things off now, but you don't want to because you want to see where things will go.  If things will change.  Or, if anything, you will have someone to hold you the next time you see them because they care to some degree.

(And yet there's still that nagging feeling in the back of my head that tells me this can only end badly if I don't end it sooner rather than later.)


Funny how life can end up to be such a shit show in such a short amount of time.


I am tired of not knowing who I am anymore.
I am tired of not being able to say no to people when it comes to things I want.
I am tired of having an irrational fear - and the anxiety that comes with it - of not being able to speak up for fear of offending or angering an individual.

Who the fuck even cares what other people who are insignificant to me think about me?

I shouldn't.


I don't set goals for the new year.
I find it to be pointless and completely useless as everyone who actually sits down on the New Year's holiday ends up failing to follow through with the goals they end up setting.
However.
I do like to set up personal challenges for myself.
(What can I say?  I'm a competitive person.)

I'm going to state these things here and pretend like anyone reading this isn't actually seeing them, because I know that for myself in the past, when I have stated things I want to do before actually setting them in motion, I end up not following through.
So let's all pretend I'm the only one who knows about these goals.

I want to learn to say no to people.
I want to get over the fear I have of speaking up and actually put myself first for the wants and needs I have, because, at the end of the day, I'm the one I'm stuck taking care of.
I want to go to counselling and learn to a) process emotions in general, and b) process them in a healthy manner.
I want to get my fucking body figured out.
I want...well, other stuff probably.

To not feel so dead on the inside.
Maybe to feel intoxicated all the time (I'd say just kidding, but...).

I am such a mess.
And I can't even ask how I got here, because I know the exact moment in time when I first made a choice that has brought me to where I am now.
And I was fully consciously aware of that decision.
As I am with every decision I make.

I am not a fool.

I am fucking brilliant.

Now if only I can put my brilliance to use and find myself a damn job...